


Ethereal

by LUC1FORM



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Christine is sad, Erik is a weird stalker as usual, Gen, Madame Giry is kind of his mom?, One Shot, Short Story, Sorry there's no Raoul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:14:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29961462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LUC1FORM/pseuds/LUC1FORM
Summary: Erik, better known as the Palais Garnier's resident Phantom, found more solace stalking in the Paris sewers and basking in never-ending night than ever visit the upper floors of the opera house. That is, until, he hears the voice of a beautiful soprano, a prima donna in the making. Christine, mourning her father, is about ready to give up on her talent. This is how the voice which calls to her finds her amidst the mirrors and claims her as a student of the Angel.Or, A SHORT STORY ELABORATING ON THE PARIS SEWERSDisclaimer: All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber.Kudos + comment if you like please!!
Kudos: 3





	Ethereal

**Author's Note:**

> Hey fellow phans, thank you for reading this! I really appreciate it. This is just a short story I wrote for a local fanfiction contest, and surprise, it won, so now I have a lot of library merch. I hope you like it, whether you love Erik, hate Erik, or think he's a creepy stalker (which he kind of is). If you're bored and waiting for Covid-19 to be over and haven't already done so, check out Dear Daae and Daae Days, two wonderful vlogs by two wonderful Christines! Comments and kudos are MUCH appreciated! Also, all rights belong to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber.  
> Set fire to the stars, LUC1FORM

Slants of moonlight swept in from high above the Palais Garnier Opera House, illuminating sections of the theater. The narrow strips of light were always there, something Erik knew very well, but they never seemed to reach his labyrinth underneath the Opera House. 

He heard a soft tapping—the sound of footsteps down a stairway.

“20,000 francs, as scheduled.” A sharp voice cut through the silence. Madame Giry, the ballet mistress, had arrived. The only person who had seen him, who knew him. The only person who had ever showed him a trace of kindness. 

Madame Giry handed him a sealed envelope, presumably carrying the hefty sum the current managers of the Opéra Populaire, MM Debienne and Poligny, paid him monthly out of fear of ruin, something Erik could easily bring down.

“And Box Five?”

“Reserved for you.” That was the second part of his deal. He’d had the same bargain with the man who had owned the Opera even before this. Box Five was his, no questions asked.

“Good.” He unfolded the envelope and pulled out a couple of the intricately detailed, soft pieces of paper, tracing a finger over the words  _ BANQUE DE FRANCE  _ on the top of the notes.

“One thing more,” began Madame Giry. “We may be getting new managers for the Opéra Populaire soon.”

“What?” he whirled around, cloak spreading behind him like a pair of heavy black wings. “When?”

“In a month or two would be my best guess,” said Madame Giry with her typical mixed air of seriousness and nonchalance. “The Monsieurs Firmin and André in question toured the Opera just this morning.”

How had he missed that? With years spent alone beneath the floors of one of France’s most famous opera houses, he’d devised all sorts of trapdoors, mirror passageways, and secret entrances, and yet had somehow not overheard a vital conversation.

“I don’t expect much will change,” she continued, “But I will inform them of the terms.”

Erik nodded distantly. These Firmin and André had better accept the terms, or they would soon find that though they may legally own the building soon, they would never be the ones holding the power.

“Do not go too far, Erik,” she warned him. “They struck me as...frivolous people. You will have to exert some control.”

_ Over who?  _ He wanted to ask.  _ Them? Me?  _ Although this was followed by  _ probably me. _

Madame Giry was like the mother he’d never had. The way you expected a guardian to be: she guarded, but did not coddle. He was a capable adult, after all.

To her comment, he did not reply. She stared down at him, but said nothing, just readjusted the pins in her braided crown of inky hair, hiding the scattered gray strands.

Madame Giry spared him a final glance before vanishing back up the stairs that led out of the shadowy sewers residing beneath the Palais Garnier Opera House, black dress melding into the darkness and receding footsteps echoing the rhythm of the night.

Erik desperately wanted to see the rehearsals happening somewhere above him for _Hannibal_ and the coming _Faust_. On occasion, he could hear the voice of that insufferable prima donna, Carlotta, wafting through the air, carrying and echoing off the empty walls. Somehow, the single woman alone made more noise with just a couple high notes than the entirety of all the chorus girls put together.

Instead, he often visited Carlotta’s dressing room to snatch what bits of the performance he could until the night of the premiere, which, to his mild horror, he realized would fall under the new ownership if Madame Giry’s sources were correct.

He found his way in the dark to the passageway that led towards the prima donna’s dressing room, a small but luxurious suite. Sometimes it became difficult to remind himself that he was a living, breathing person too, just like the performers above him, out of reach. Erik had always felt more like a creature of the night, and the way he dressed reflected that: most of his clothes were black, with the exception of the snow—white half mask he almost never removed that covered the partial disfigurement of his face. If anything, the finery almost separated him further, something he tried to tell himself often he didn’t mind. He had been told that he wasn’t human in the first place by too many people to count, so why try to pretend he was?

Instead of Carlotta’s operatic belting, he heard a soft vibrato resonating from somewhere nearby. That voice...why had he never heard it before?

This passageway, formerly used by gaolers, led to nowhere but the current prima donna’s dressing room. He would have to find another way to that voice. It wasn’t like he could just walk out; the youngest ballerinas already thought that there was some sort of Opera ghost.

Erik retraced his steps, the ground sloping beneath him, reaching a fork in the hidden path from which he could hear more clearly. He couldn’t remember how many years ago he had taken this path—not recently, to say the least.

The long, dark tunnel ended behind a mirror. Ah, yes, he remembered this passage now—he’d installed a clever trick with the mirrors here, something befuddling enough that the reflections almost seemed more like yourself than you did. A disappearing trick.

The lilting song drew him closer. The entrance to this dressing room he was seeing had a special kind of glass, so he could see what was going on from his side but it was mirrored on the other side. On the other faces, it revolved like a door, but made exits seem like magic.

Inside the dressing room sat a girl perched on a pillowed stool—not quite a woman yet, but a few years older than Madame Giry’s daughter, Meg. She worked her hands through her dark ringlets as she sang to herself, staring only at the mirror.

_ If only she knew,  _ he thought.  _ If only she could see she isn’t looking just at herself.  _

Who was this girl? His eyes drifted to the temporary name on the door: Christine Daaé. The name didn’t sound very French, but what with immigration and such one couldn’t be sure. 

Once he had heard the voice, though, the name didn’t matter at all. It was just him, unseen, listening to the creamy song being sung by the girl—one of the ensemble parts from  _ Hannibal.  _

Her voice was very strong for someone not even in their peak years, which prima donnas didn’t reach until their late twenties or early thirties. It resonated around the room, like the bold chiming of bells from a rooftop. There wasn’t a single note she didn’t coat in that heavy, sugary lilt of hers. It was...ethereal.

She had talent. What she did not have, however, was wings to carry her on. Unless she could be noticable, unless she could be a  _ star,  _ this girl would be in the same position for the next ten years until she went past her prime and became useless to the Opera. 

She sighed, stopping the song and dropping her fingers into her lap, staring at the mirror as if she expected to see someone other than herself there.  _ Keep going!  _ Erik wanted to scream. He needed her. He needed this. He needed  _ more _ .

“Oh, father.” she said softly, beginning to talk to herself. “Are you still here?”

There was no reply. 

“You always promised,” she continued. “You said that one day you would die, but you would send me a sign. That the Angel would come. You’re gone, but where is that sign? What am I waiting for?” 

_ What angel? _

She stood up and started pacing, accidentally knocking a comb off her powder table. “It’s been years, father. Am I supposed to stop waiting? I don’t want to move along. My new family is here, at the Opera, but I want  _ you _ . I wish you could see-”

Coincidentally, Erik had been thinking along the same lines. Of course, this delusion of grandeur was shattered when she added, “-how far I’ve come. I used to sing with you when we traveled, remember? You said I sang like how my mother did. I can’t remember her voice.”

She turned around to face the mirrors again, like talking to herself would change something. “Is she there, too? Am I just the one left behind?”

In that moment, Christine Daaé became an ordinary girl, lost in the woods. Erik had a sudden urge to take her with him. She would never willingly go with him, though. He was a freak, a monster, and she was the mirror of youthful beauty. If she had any money, there probably would have been suitors lining up outside her dressing room. The thought sent a nettled, prickly feeling through him. 

She sank back down onto the cushion.  _ Look at me,  _ Erik willed, but she couldn’t see what he could. That was precisely it. She couldn’t see what he could. He could see more. He could see her replacing Carlotta. He could see her becoming the next greatest star, a goddess, a queen. He could teach her, make her into his success, and he could rule his own little world beside her.

“Little Lotte,” she said to herself. “That’s what you called me, father.” She laughed, a tinkling, sweet sound. “If I think back, I realize I never liked it. But now, I would give anything to hear you say it again. To tell stories, the way you told me about the Angel of Music.”

Christine was holding these dreams too close to her chest. It was like keeping two mourning doves that had mated for life apart and expecting them not to fly away together upon releasing them. People were meant to live, and let go. But then again, it wasn’t something he particularly excelled at either: he held sorrows like sharp diamonds and nurtured his grudges like young pearls. 

“Father, where is this angel? You said that if I continued down the path you set for me, you promised that the Angel of Music would visit me.” she stared into the mirror. “What happened? Where did I go wrong?” Her voice broke and her eyes grew wet. “Father, should I stop? Are you really there? Or has this all just been a fantasy inside my mind?”

The pieces slowly joined together in Erik’s head. And Christine...he couldn’t get her out of his head. Those deep, almond eyes sent him turning at every glance. 

“Christine,” he whispered. 

She whirled around. “Who’s there?” she hesitated. “Father? Have you really been listening? Did you send me the Angel of Music? Or do I simply dream?” 

“Christine,” he whispered again. His voice echoed around the room, bouncing off mirrors as she whirled around, searching desperately for the owner of the sound.

“Are—are you the Angel?” she asked, the fear in her voice gone.

“Yes, Christine,” said Erik, smiling darkly through his mask, life flooding his cold heart, making it beat faster. “I will be your Angel of Music.”


End file.
